violence
by The Resurrection 3D
Summary: You've made this place unbecoming. Do I have to stay? (Paul/Patryck/Tord, post-The End)


Title is from Low's song "Violence", but the summary is from their song "Stay" off the same album. Because Violence's lyrics go too far into the realm of vaguely-poetic nonsense that means nothing to the reader, even for my tastes.

Tags: fluff and angst, post-The End, sharing a bed

Pairings: Paul/Patryck/Tord, implied past Edd/Tord

x-x-x

The door opens with a long shadow and a blast of cold air.

Patryck, scrambling for the shadow and papers mid-flight.

Paul, stumbling inside, their Red Leader cradled in his arms.

Red Leader, a broken doll, his face covered in blood.

In his remaining hand is a scrap of green clothing.

Paul's face is worn, Red's faraway, and Patryck's a rictus as Paul follows him to the lantern hung on the far wall, dull light pooled onto a nest of a mattress-top, sleeping bags, guns, prepackaged food, gently humming radios, code keys, and so much detritus.

Paul slowly lowers, spreading their Red Leader out before he settles beside him, Patryck on the other side. A heavy sigh, a lingering pause before Paul tries to rise again and Red Leader erupts with a pathetic noise, his stump batting against Paul's chest.

I'm gonna shower and change. I'll be right back.

Paul ghosts his lips to the bruised rim of Red Leader's mount, the pins sticking out from his bones unaltered— thank god, he doesn't need to lose another inch.

Patryck lets Red Leader unfurl against him as Paul leaves the bed. Reaches until he finds a water bottle and a shirt, unbuttons a snow-slick coat as he coos softly into Red's ear.

I'm here.

Let's take this off, okay?

Let me wash your face.

Buffs the blood off Red's flesh as the distant roar of water halts and Paul walks into his nightclothes, pulling the corner of an unzipped sleeping bag over their waists as he sinks back into their bed.

He still smells like gunpowder and blood.

Patryck discards the shirt and runs his thumb over the seam of Red Leader's mouth until it rips. Presses his own mouth over top, feeling Red melt enough for Paul to gently draw one of Red's legs up over his hip as he nuzzles closer.

Another soft kiss, then, underneath Red's scar tissue eye, moving higher onto his brow bone and thinned hairline.

Paul brings purpled knuckles up to his own split lips. When he tries to uncurl Red's fingers from the scrap of cloth, however, Red responds with a deep, bestial growl, like a wolf about to jump with jaws wide.

But they all know it's for show.

Paul raises his hand in surrender. The other he stretches out for Red Leader and Patryck's pillow, before lightly encircling Red's wrist and kissing down the latticework veins, the ba dum, ba dum, ba dum still quick under his skin.

Patryck pulls the sleeping bag up to their shoulders, kicking the corners out so they can all draw their feet in. Patryck and Paul press close, sandwiching their Red Leader between them, their own hands meeting over his waist.

Lips on his pulse and lips in his hair, those places where the scarring is almost light. Paul's still-damp skin brushing against his fingers.

He doesn't let go of the cloth.

Det er gjort, he says, nearly unable to finish for how the air attacks his dry throat. It's over. It's done.

Their bodies are fever-hot against the cold cabin air.

His face is still wet from the blood and the cloth. There are places Patryck missed, he's sure of it.

It feels as if Patryck is still touching his face.

It feels as if –

No. Banish the thought, burn it with the rest of the garbage.

Their breathing is slowing, but he won't be fooled.

Relax.

It's over. It's done.

Two new lovers, he in-between them. The green cloth so much detritus now.

He stares at the endless black of the ceiling. Listens to the all-encompassing roar of winter leaking through the cabin's wooden bones.

Imagines animals finally coming out to sniff the pools of red in the snow, inspect the shredded wires and metal bits sunken inside like dinosaurs in thick, glossy tar.

He readjusts his grip, feels wetness that cannot be blood, the blood would be dried by now, so it must be his own cold sweat.

It has been night for only a few hours and only a few years.

Hot breath mingling with his breath. Hot flesh against his flesh. Writhing shadows behind his eye.

So much detritus now.


End file.
